He’d killed his best friend, André Laffite, because he’d driven on bad tires on a wet day to win. Since the wreck, he’d slept with every beautiful woman with a title on the continent, heartlessly jilting them, not caring if he broke their hearts as long as they pleasured him.
So, they hadn’t met quite by accident.
She took a deep breath against the hurt that threatened to overwhelm her. He wasn’t attracted to her. He’d been feeling her out, figuring out a strategy to get the valuable properties he coveted.
Beneath the blaring headline were pictures of the crash that had ended the life of his best friend. Apparently Remy had been determined to win at any cost. More photographs of the wreck were splashed across a back page. There were numerous shots of Remy and the beautiful women he’d dated and jilted. One of the women had even made a suicide attempt after her affair with him. Not that the woman herself blamed Remy. No, she said he’d helped her through a difficult time. There was an awful picture of him smashing his fist into a reporter’s jaw.
When she finished reading the articles and looking at the pictures, Amy felt sick. She reexamined them, anyway. When she was done, she shot to her feet and began to pace with the newspaper clutched to her heart. If half the accusations were true, she should despise him. Wadding the paper up, she threw the pages at the wall and then flung herself back down on Carol’s sofa.
Bastard. Liar. Jerk.
A memory came back to her. Remy had been eighteen, and she’d been in the garden when the comte had hurled brutal, damning insults at him. Never would she forget the torment in Remy’s eyes when he’d stormed out of the château and straight into her.
“What the hell were you doing?” he’d thundered. “Spying?”
“But I wasn’t.”
“Damn little eavesdropper! Get out of my way!”
“No. I—I wasn’t. I swear.”
“Liar.”
“No. I—I’m sorry about what he said. Maybe he didn’t mean it.”
“Spare me your fake kindness. He meant it, all right. I hope I never have the bad fortune to meet you or your aunt again.” He slammed past her and out the gate and she hadn’t seen him for seventeen years. Till today.
And now? Outwardly he was much changed from the tall, awkward, angry boy who’d been so rude to her.
Fool. He’d been deliberately charming because he wanted the vineyard and the painting.
Still, he’d gone out of his way to make her like him. Even now when she should be furious because he’d deceived her so he could use her or so his agents could trick her, she wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He is loathsome. So much worse than Fletcher.
But that woman who’d tried to kill herself had defended him.
Why did the bad boys of the world always appeal to her? Why couldn’t she fall for some nice, paunchy accountant going bald, someone like Carol’s Steve, an upright, type-A achiever? Or even just the normal guy Remy had described: the nice guy with a job who wants to settle down and marry so he can have a houseful of kids to play soccer with on the weekend.
If a hard-partying surfer was the frying pan, Remy, the womanizing, ex–Formula One driver, who’d watched her buy transparent panties and had made her pulse race, was definitely the fire.
She was lying on the couch in a state of utter depression as she tried without success to conjure up a dull ideal mate when the phone rang.
“Hey!” Carol said too brightly, sounding like her overly self-confident self. “I’m at the house. If you took the train from Euston, you’d be here in an hour and I could have dinner ready. The kids and Steve are very keen about seeing you.”
The very last person in London she felt like seeing was her perfect, superior, drop-dead gorgeous, big sister.
“I don’t feel too well,” she heard herself say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something I ate, probably. Or jet lag. I’ll have to catch you on my way home.”
“I’m so sorry you don’t feel well. I worked so hard all day just so we could all be together tonight. Do you need a doctor? Should I come to London?”
Guilt swamped Amy. She felt like dirt. Here she was lying, and Carol sounded so concerned and caring. “I’m sure after a quiet night here, I’ll be just fine.”
“Well, then, if you’re sure…I really am tired after the trip. Maybe I’ll just pop by and check on you first thing in the morning on my way to the firm. Maybe bring you a croissant or something.”
They talked a little while longer, making tentative plans to see each other in the morning before they hung up.
I can’t believe I did that! I’ve let him ruin my visit with Carol! My mood! Everything!
She stared across the room at the wadded-up newspaper.
All those women, women as beautiful and poised and perfect as Carol. They must’ve liked him, too.
He’d said he liked her because she was different.
Quit thinking about him!
Usually, Amelia wasn’t one for hard liquor, but this was an emergency. She went to the kitchen, telling herself she was after a bottle of sparkling water or a soda, but the bottle of scotch lived in the same cabinet with the sodas, and it spoke to her. She grabbed a glass and poured a shot over some chunklets of ice. Swirling the glass, she returned to the living room, where she settled herself on the couch once more. For a long time, she just sat there, glumly sipping Carol’s scotch as she glared at the wadded-up newspaper and the half of Remy’s face she could see.
Then she stood. Crossing the room, she picked up the newspaper again. This time a photograph she’d barely noticed caught her attention. His stony face bleached of arrogance and any conceit, Remy was walking through the pits carrying André’s helmet under his arm. All she saw in his hard features was shock and grief.
Who was he really? He’d been so nice to her today. He’d been attentive to her needs, and he’d gone out of his way to make her feel special and beautiful. Was he that sensitive, caring person or the man she’d just read about?
He’d had lots and lots of women. He couldn’t have had all those women if he wasn’t a really good lover. He was French. Frenchmen had a worldwide reputation for being good lovers. She knew it was crazy, but she began to envy those glamorous women whose hearts he’d broken.
Fletcher had accused her of being old and boring. More than anything she wanted to be exciting.
Remy de Fournier had asked her to go dancing tonight. Maybe he was totally awful like the papers made him out to be.
Or maybe he was just the man she needed to show her how to be a more exciting and confident woman. He’d made her feel interesting and beautiful today.
Maybe it was time she learned a new set of life skills. What sort of things could he teach her if she spent an entire night with him?
Her mother was always saying she could be and have so much more if she refused to settle. Maybe it was time to live a little dangerously.
Slowly Amy dug into her pocket and felt for the scrap of paper with Remy’s phone numbers on it. For a long moment she studied the flowing black letters. Then with shaking fingers she began dialing his mobile, but after letting it ring once, she hung up, and would have chewed her nails except she couldn’t because she had on those new tips.
Damn!
She was still staring at her fake pink fingernails in utter frustration when the phone rang.
Expecting